Fever
by Wanagi Moon
Summary: Nefandus can change you – or reveal you. Catty/Stanton.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Daughters Of The Moon_.

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><p>"In order to understand, I destroyed myself."<br>— Fernando Pessoa, from_ The Book Of Disquiet_

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><p>A predator sleeps in my bones, always lurking – prepared to bite.<p>

I imagine it savors the scent of fear, or the taste of blood, but as the days become weeks it is clear to me its desires are human, carnal, and raw.

I am frightened, stumbling through Nefandus with bruised ankles and skin as soft as paper; you can press your thumb into it, painting the ivory-hued flesh the color of the sea, dark blue, so dark.

Even though a predator dwells inside of me, I am more vulnerable and weak than ever. I rarely eat, my limbs are glass-fragile, and a phantom wound grows in my chest, filling it with a chill I hadn't felt since murdering Kyle.

Since I stepped into the Cold Fire.

Adamantis – my _father_ – often appraises me, his thin lips always twisted into a grotesque smirk. He pats my shoulder, or smooths his hand down my spiraling hair, and I never know if it's an act of pride or a means to gauge how submissive I am. I am his obedient child.

The predator snarls and growls, and terror seizes me.

I maneuver through the corridor, ignoring the small children – _slaves_ – dusting mantlepieces and shuffling around, their eyes downcast and their frail bodies battered and blue. Here I am refusing to eat while these little babes are _denied_ food.

My stomach churns sickeningly.

I am selfish and cruel and a coward, and I need a friend.

"Stanton," I say, opening the door and slipping into the library. He must have sensed my presence in the house, for he smiles warmly, although the kindness doesn't touch his crystalline blue eyes. They are dark and somber, and as predatory as my own.

We're slipping, aren't we.

"What is it?" He sets a large book aside and stands, examining me curiously. I wonder how I appear to everybody. My reflection disgusts me; I refuse to offer even the briefest of glimpses into a mirror. What will I see other than a sullen girl with black eyes and gaunt cheeks? What is the point in indulging such self-loathing?

"You look beautiful," he corrects, concern on his face, "but what's the problem?"

I roll my shoulders into a shrug. "I'm not sure. I don't know. I feel..."_ Scared._ "I just needed company."

_Your facade is wavering_, he warns, pointedly scanning my body; the bruises, the cut on my lip from neurotically biting the skin off, and the thinness of my legs.

_Yours certainly isn't_, I snipe, surveying him critically. He does seem evil, convincingly so. His aura alone is heavy and sinister... Yet my own predatory instincts tingle in response, welcoming a companion as hungry and vicious as itself.

Stanton sighs, and once again I feel like a child, foolish and ignorant as to what reality is. _I have to be strong. The Atrox has Serena and Vanessa. Or have you forgotten? _He turns away from me, irritation ironed onto his handsome face.

My own anger – swift and sudden in its arrival – nearly knocks me over. _I'm trying!_ My hands are shaking; I want to release my molecules and become a shadow, a plume of black wisps with a mighty hunger I had only truly felt with Kyle.

"Try harder," he commands aloud, although his voice is soft, low. _If you can't mimic the darkness I _know_ you feel inside of you, then your friends are doomed. _

"I am dark," I counter, flexing my fingers – I had unknowingly balled my hands into fists, straining the skin over my knuckles. "What did you do to gain immortality?"

Stanton stares at me reproachfully, disgusted by my bold request, yet flatly states, "I killed a goddess." A deep sorrow spills into his eyes, and I mentally note how well it suits him. It is not broodiness. No. It is a strange meld of Follower and human: an intensity of spirit only a being of extreme needs and emotions can manifest.

"Killed? _Murder_?"

"I tricked her into stepping into the Cold Fire. She was not chosen, however..."

I shake my head, imagining the stench of charred flesh. "Why would anyone fall for that? What did she think would happen?"

"Her sister was a _lecta_. She went to save her. I pretended I sympathized with her, told her of my own unwilling servitude, and then lied." He rubs his forehead, and I can tell he is irate with me for asking him to tell such a woeful story, yet regardless he continues, "I said she could go into the fire and take her sister out, because her light would be stronger than its magic. But as you know, even brushing your hand through the fire when it has not invited you in can kill you."

_She died instantly. _I nod at him, letting his words sink in; wondering what her name was, how old she was, the depression Maggie and the goddesses had certainly sunk into.

He tilts his head, a curious look gracing his face. "You're not angry. Why?"

"I murdered my ex-boyfriend and his best friends." I chuckle bitterly to myself before telepathically adding, _I'm not going to judge you, Stanton. It's not my place._

The feverish sensations dwelling within me begin to intensify, and a peculiar warmth spreads through my veins, from my toes to my fingertips. I crave release – from my body, from this hell, from my destiny.

_But I fear you're right_, he whispers across my mind, clearly vexed. _You are dark as am I, and I'm not sure where the facade ends and reality begins._

I flick my hand, dismissing his concerns, although I know his statement is one of absolute truth. Sometimes I am cruel to the _servi_ and it isn't until I have left the room that I realize I was alone with them – my father was not present nor any other Followers. There was no need for a "show." I was not masquerading for anybody's benefit. My malicious demands and snide remarks were born from a deeply troubling darkness growing within my soul, its utmost desire of power and control momentarily controlling my nerves and senses.

_Nefandus turns you against yourself_, he explains, stepping toward me and resting his hand gently on my shoulder. _Or, in your case, turns into you into somebody you were always meant to be. But you can reject it._

The child of a fallen goddess and a demon.

The daughter of a woman with selfish fears and a man with selfish needs.

"Thank you for your bluntness," I seethe, glowering at him through slitted eyes while shaking off his hand, "but I am afraid it is not welcomed."

He quips an eyebrow. _Then why are you here? Did you want me to lie to you? Tell you you're a perfect angel? You don't need to be lied to, Catty. _

"Atertra," I correct, although the name is foreign to me. It wraps around my tongue awkwardly.

"Is a ridiculous name," he interjects with a smirk.

I shake my head, still annoyed by his prior accusations. _I can play the part of who I should be. I can copy my darker self. _

_You have to. _He folds his arms across his chest while scowling at me. _You know this. But don't let it take over. _

The predator magnifies in strength upon hearing his remark – its vulgar impulses cradling me and whispering sensuously into my ear. It sinks its teeth into my bones and possesses my nerves. I lift my hands and rest them on Stanton's chest, the movement so natural to me I finally know _who_, precisely, Atertra is.

This is Atertra.

She is a scared, young woman who has always been plagued with the fear of remaining alone; jealously comparing her loneliness to her friends' successful romances. Always falling into the past, refusing to greet a future unless she could tamper with it, twist it to meets her needs – so much power and control.

Atertra is Catty, and I am...

"Catty," Stanton murmurs, his tone one of caution. Clasping my hands, he lowers them at my sides, and the panic and ache consume me like fire. Trapped, I feel trapped; squeezed between concrete walls as they slowly crush me.

I quickly jerk my arms away and then wrap them around his neck, my face buried into his shirt and my eyes watering with tears. He kindly hugs me, although not too tightly or loosely. It's a sad, distant embrace and it ignites my anger.

I don't want to be alone right now – or ever.

Guided by my own foolish heartache – while driven by this maddening evil resting in my blood – I hurriedly lift my chin and touch my lips eagerly against his, my eyes fluttering close immediately.

Pretending is easy when you can't see.

His body tenses instantaneously, although he doesn't move away from me. There is a moment, a moment so filled with compassion and tenderness I can hardly breathe, where his mouth presses against mine. It is a curious sort of intimacy, one of mutual understanding and identical despair.

Two lonely souls operating outside of their bodies, meeting at a bend in the road where the moonlight cannot reach.

As swiftly as the kiss had come it ends, and my heart beats violently against my ears. My throat feels heavy.

Stanton coughs once, his arms now at his sides, and I know he is beyond hurt – with my actions, with his own, with the world.

I exhale slowly, and then whisper, "Sorry."

"It's alright," he responds, but it's not, it's really not, and we both know it. I _am_ weak. A foolish girl. "Nefandus is not good for anybody."

"But you said it turns you into who you were meant to be?" I lower my eyes to the floor.

He stares silently – and without emotion – at me for a few seconds, and then says, "I wasn't lying. That's what makes it terrible."

"What do we... _I _do now?" I ring my fingers through my hair, resisting the temptation to start tearing it up from my scalp._ How do I keep this all inside me?_

"Darkness like yours is unique," he says, so quietly I almost don't catch it, "but not completely. You're a Follower. Followers take without thinking. They are thoughtless and reckless. They don't feel. Everything is impulse, and that impulse is naturally self-destructive."

I gaze at him, sensing a shift in the air. "Are the impulses natural to who _we_ are or natural to human nature in general?"

_I've never bothered to find out_, he answers curtly, stepping around me and heading toward the door. _And right now I _really_ don't want to know._

I flinch from the animosity in his voice, the force of his final telepathic message jarring my skull.

He slams the door behind him and, once again, I am alone.


End file.
